Pale Sun
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: He had let her go to find happiness with another. He had let her, since her heart, unlike his, could move on from the hopes and dreams of a love that could never be. John Smith/Pocahontas/John Rolfe. Companion piece to Winter Moon.


Disclaimer: I do not own the film, _Pocahontas_, characters, places, etc. Disney owns the storyline, and the characters—the historical ones, rather—belong to themselves. This story is written solely for entertainment purposes only. Thank you.

Summary: He had let her go to find happiness with another. He had let her, since her heart, unlike his, could move on from the hopes and dreams of a love that could never be. John Smith/Pocahontas/John Rolfe. Companion piece to Winter Moon.

Pale Sun

_London, England_

_June 1631_

It was a rainy day in June when the great Captain John Smith realized just how much of a mistake he'd made when he left Virginia.

He inwardly grimaced at that silent delcaration, and corrected himself. For over twenty years, actually, he'd known that he'd made a terrible mistake, but had only come to acknowledge it on what he was certain was his deathbed. He closed his eyes, his shuddered breathing wracked by the pain that surged throughout his tired body. His right hand blindly grasped at the folds of his sweat-stained shirt, as he was besieged by another coughing fit.

He sighed when it passed, his eyes closing in pained resignation. To think, he had been fine only a fortnight ago. At fifty-one, he had been as hale and as hearty as any man half his age, but now…

In the passing days, his health had declined rapidly, the local apothecary unable to do anything but allow him the time he had left to be spent in peace. He wasn't even able to lift a quill and write about his adventures, let alone to anyone of his acquaintance. His _True Relation _and_ Generall Historie of Virginia _would have to suffice as his account of everything he'd found in the New World, since he no longer had the strength to pen what had really transpired there, because some things were too secret, too private, for any other to know of. What he had found in Virginia would be taken to his grave, never again to see the light of day.

He had no need of a quill and ink to assure that; he needed nothing, save for the bittersweet reminders that had now come to torment him—memories of a few stolen moments where his rootless, itinerant existence actually made sense, if only for a time. His eyes opened at the revelation. He'd never belonged anywhere, even though London had ultimately become his permanent residence. It wasn't his home. Only a place to live, he supposed, a place to simply exist in a world built upon a stolid, monarchial belief of strength, prosperity, and civilization.

Civilization.

He almost cringed at the word. It had come to haunt him for decades. Since that turbulent summer in 1607, if he wanted to be precise. The word, though perhaps more so its connotation, had followed him from one corner of the world to another, while foreign faces had come to counter that age-old status quo that he'd once so freely given into its archaic appellation. He no longer used the term to describe a race of people whom his own countrymen now spit upon and enslaved. He no longer used it because that one word alone changed his perception on everything he knew and believed up until that crucial moment in his life, when he came face-to-face with who was truly the civilized and who the savage. And it had been because of one woman.

He coughed again, flinching at the fire in his lungs. The pain was worse than what Ratcliffe's musket had done to his chest, the continuous, dull ache he felt all over his body forcing him to remember things that his mind otherwise compelled him to forget, yet could never completely. He looked down wearily at his hands, a pair of blue eyes—which remained as insightful and intelligent, while the rest of him deteriorated—noting each wrinkle and sunspot he'd earned with time. His tawny mane was now streaked with thin strands of silver, proving him to be no longer the lion in his youth. He grimaced at the cold reality. Living was so unfair at times, especially when those in his youth were no longer there for him to see.

He was so old now—too old to make another voyage to a world that was still so new and striking in its intensity to him, a world that only now bordered on the edge of his dreams. He could still recall his wonder at all of that he'd beheld then, when the _Susan Constant_ first dropped anchor over a lifetime ago. He had been so young then, so free of the troubles from a world that presently daunted him. It had been a time of innocence then—perhaps the only innocence he'd ever known. He frowned at the probability, his ashen features darkening as he allowed his memories to overcome him.

The bright sun of that morning still burned his eyes; its brilliant red rays the color of a bloody dawn. It was to be his last…until she intervened, saving him from a fate worse than her father's wrath—or so, both had believed then and only then, when they were at last united, the tension broken between two worlds as all looked perilously on to a love that thrived between a pair of lovers who were both colorblind to a world on the edge of chaos surrounding them. It had been then and only then, when he held the love of his life in his arms that he truly felt alive, and the moment when all hell broke loose, the firing of Ratcliffe's musket sealing his fate. He grimaced at a phantom pain that surged in his chest, the pockmark-shaped scar a grave reminder of all that he'd sacrificed in her name.

It probably would have been better if he had died that day in her arms, than to live a lifetime without her. He was still half a century away from being a hundred, but he'd lived long enough. For after all of the adventures he'd had—before and after meeting her—and the many discoveries he'd made since then, nothing could ever compare to those few, preciously fleeting days he'd had with her, Pocahontas, little mischief, the great Powhatan's dark-eyed daughter, and the one and only thing that truly mattered. The one thing he'd truly lost.

He almost cried out her name, like he had done in the many nights of his illness. She could not hear him, of course; she was too far away to hear his plea, even though she had his heart with her, constantly beating alongside her own until hers ceased forever, not too far from London itself. He faltered at the bleak reality.

He'd heard of her death, not long after she'd been buried. He'd also heard of the grief her husband—that ever-so-prim-and-proper king's lapdog of a diplomat—and how the man had wailed at the loss of her, and of the young son she'd left behind. Smith faltered in his ruminations. The news of her death had nearly broken him; and although he could understand what her husband had surely gone through, the loss seemed all that more acute, since he'd lost her _twice_ before her death.

He doubted he'd ever forgive Ratcliffe. For all the man's meddling, Smith had lost more than a patch of skin and the fickle favor of a now deceased king. He still lived, outliving even that villainous bastard Ratcliffe himself, but at a terrible cost. For all his living on, his heart laid buried in Gravesend, while the rest of him slowly withered away to a shell of a man he once was. He shook his head, the faint remembrance of her words echoing in his thoughts.

"_It would have been better if we'd never met. None of this would have happened."_

Perhaps she'd been right all along. Though if he had never known her, spoke to her, had held her, kissed her…He would've been happier in his ignorance of her existence, perhaps, but he would've been living half a life, as well. A hundred years could never carry its weight against that, and he knew it, just as he also knew that the man who had eventually captured her heart had been the better choice for her, since, for all the wealth and recognition the king lavished on him, Rolfe had given it all up for the woman he loved. Whereas he, Captain John Smith, had kept the ship King James had given him. It was what he'd wanted for years, though he could have—should have—given it up, for her. He almost had. And he instantly regretted not doing so, since the tortured look in her eyes expressed what her silence could not.

Sailing to faraway and uncharted distant lands had never been what she wanted, let alone needed. It had always been her people, who forever remained at the heart of who she was and had been, while her duty remained unto them, and never to herself. Rolfe had seen and understood as much, and had given up his old life to continue helping her bridge a gap between their worlds. And both had been happy. From all accounts, Rolfe had even gifted Pocahontas with a tattoo matching hers as a wedding gift, just as his loyalty remained to her, even upon his own death. The man had loved her with as much strength and devotion as any Smith had ever known, as it perhaps surpassed his own.

He looked longingly toward the window on the other side of his bedroom. He snorted at the thought of one of the grey-bearded physicians, who had cautioned him against keeping it opened, since the rain had already set in his lungs—or so it had been said by those who looked up him, shook their heads, and gave their condolences for his impending demise. It mattered little now if he kept the window open or not, since he presently allowed the moonlight in.

He almost smirked at his small defiance of the good apothecary and the man's Hippocratic advice as it bathed the otherwise dark room with its bright, silvery light, encompassing everything it touched with an eerie, almost ethereal, glow. His books and maps were certainly all the better for it, and he silently marveled at its pale, luminous beauty for another moment before redirecting his thoughts to the face of the one who had ultimately won the heart of a princess, a man who reminded him so much of the stark splendor of a full winter moon. He turned away from it in silent shame, knowing that he could not hate John Rolfe, just as he could not bring himself to curse a dead man whose son he'd come to greatly admire.

Smith saw so much of both Rolfe and Pocahontas in the young Thomas Rolfe, who was, assuredly, a young man by now, and continuing in his parents' work in bringing peace to two worlds that were now so much a part of him as they had been for his parents.

He lived in Virginia now, but had come to see Smith before leaving to return to his home among his mother's people. It had almost surprised Smith at first, seeing the young man, since was it indisputable that he had also inherited his mother's strength and great Powhatan features, whereas he beheld all with those changeable hazel eyes that had been his father's. Smith had seen both in the young man, and found himself strangely proud of the youth who had stood before him, not five years past, and presented him with something—a gift, he'd deemed it—that he hadn't seen in years.

His left hand grasped it out of reflex, although he didn't look at it. He carried it with him, wherever he went, as it now remained at his side, his sole companion that lay quietly next to him in the solemn dark hours of his fading existence. Clasping it tightly, he held onto it with the last of his strength, finding a strange sort of comfort emanate from it. He almost wished he could talk to Grandmother Willow again, since the old tree would surely know how to advise him on what would happen when the last ounce of his strength left him completely.

But he was not in Virginia. Nor would he ever be again.

Shaking his head at his small misfortune, he again thought of the young Thomas, as he then recalled how the youth had told him of his father's tribal name, which seemed to suite the former diplomat. Smith recalled how those strange hazel eyes looked into his, when he revealed that Rolfe loved the Powhatan princess. It had surprised both; and although Smith was reluctant to admit it, he'd known that the battle for Pocahontas' heart had become all that much more difficult to win. His adversary appeared to truly care for her, having joined in her desire to protect her people as both worked toward bridging her world with his in the interests of peace. It was more than diplomacy that brought them together, since Smith knew that the man genuinely cared for the woman who had come to England in her father's place.

It had been something that he had reflected on a lot lately. Strange Eyes. That was what the Powhatan had called Rolfe, and he'd accepted the name, as he accepted living without the finery from a realm he'd long since abandoned. It was almost surprising in a way, since Smith had originally pegged Rolfe for a dandy. And yet, the man had surprised him, going so far as to assimilate into a culture, completely different from his own. It was certainly more than Smith had ever done—something of which he was now ashamed of. For what would it have been like if he had been in Rolfe's place, and stood at Pocahontas' side? His was a pale face, certainly, with hair the color of the sun. If he had stayed, he was certain that he would have been named after both attributes, which he would have freely welcomed. Pale Sun. It was a fitting name. And one he would never have, for he was still the same Captain John Smith whom everyone on five continents knew. He would never be known by any other name, even though he longed for the change. It would quite a lark if such was inked on his will. He almost smiled at the thought.

It had been a wise decision to finally write one out, since he had no children to leave his personal effects to. He never married. He couldn't bring himself to, not after meeting the other half of himself and losing her through by his own idiocy. For although he was fairly average in writing his memoirs, he'd never been any good at writing letters, particularly to the one to whom he owed his very life. What could he have said to her in words that did his love for her justice? And yet, he should've returned, should've found some way to be with her after his injuries had healed. He could have, he knew, since Ratcliffe, for all his treachery, was not omniscient. But something held him back, something that he had been unable to define until he saw her again.

The finery she'd worn nearly made him recoil inwardly. He'd barely recognized the beauty underneath the powder and rouge, her wild black hair bound by the constrictions of his society. She was something he had never imagined, something that he wanted to hide, and set free from the fetters that chained her to his deplorable world. He wanted to take her away from the corruption England represented, the festering wound unable to taint her as it had him and so many of his countrymen. He'd empathized with her plight in saving her people, he truly had, but he couldn't bear the force of James' imperial might to fall hard down on her, either. But then, that desire to protect her had been his undoing. Rolfe had foreseen what needed to be done, whereas he had acted out of instinct in protecting her than standing at her side. He'd done the same when they'd met at Grandmother Willow's, but then time the circumstances had been vastly different.

He never wanted her to believe he was dead, but he feared the repercussions if she knew the truth. He knew that Ratcliffe would have used it to his advantage, since he also knew that Pocahontas would find a way to be with him. He couldn't risk endangering her, not when her life meant more than his own. It was one of the reasons why he never wrote to her, as he also found that her decision to stay in Virginia with her father and her people had been for the best. Ratcliffe would have surely used her as a pawn the moment they set foot on English soil. _Since it would not have been my own life at stake then_, he thought dejectedly.

Even now, he would not have changed anything, save for giving her up so easily, perhaps. It had been the worst mistake he'd ever made, when he gave her up to pursue a life without her. He'd wanted her happiness, and if that meant a life without him, he had been willing to let her love another. And yet, perhaps he should have fought for her heart; she had been so easy to love, as that love had never left him, only remaining dormant, but never gone completely. He should've given up his old life, should have remained with her in Virginia.

A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye as he remembered what she had said of his belonging with her people. Perhaps he would have belonged there; he would never know for sure. It was much too late to find that out now, too late for everything, save for reliving a life he wanted, more than anything else. He wanted to live, to have someone at his side. But there was no one to comfort him. No one now to take the heavy burden of life from him, and share in the many pains as well as pleasures that came with it. He'd lived the life of a solitary adventurer, without thought or care of a life he could have had otherwise, and now he was paying for it by dying alone, with only his adventures for company.

No, not only his adventures, he silently corrected himself, as he finally looked down at the object he held in his hand, its tarnished gold surface reflecting a hazy likeness of himself. He smiled faintly. He could still recognize himself, even though, like the compass he held, he had weathered away by time and the elements. An old man now resided in his place, although the young adventurer was still there, somewhere beneath the sunspots and graying hair.

He idly wondered what she would think of him if she saw him now. Would she still find him handsome? For himself, she'd remained as beautiful and as lasting as the memory he'd preserved of her. She hadn't aged a day, from when they parted ways for the last time. But she had surely changed; she had become a wife and a mother. There were even rumors that she'd become a Christian, and had changed her name to Rebecca, but he couldn't believe that. The Pocahontas he knew would never reject the ways of her people, in order to conform to a society that showed precious little tolerance for her people. _She'd learned that lesson the first time she came to this godforsaken land_, he thought abjectly, and looked once again at the compass he held.

He'd originally given it to her pet raccoon, calling it a gift. Undoubtedly, it had, in turn, given it to her. He shook his head. Why she still kept it after their separation surprised him by degrees. Surely, she would have buried it upon hearing the false news of his death. Perhaps she had, only to unearth it for the remaining tenure of his life, keeping it in trust until her own demise, before charging her son to return it to the one to whom it originally belonged.

Either way, it had come into his possession, and he aimed to keep it, even after his death. It was one of the few possessions he'd instructed to be buried with. He doubted anyone would reconsider his request, since it was of little value, although it was worth more than all the gold in the Americas. His fingers slightly moved it, his tired eyes watching the rusted black arrow move from side to side. It pointed south before turning east and then north. He almost laughed. Apparently, his compass did not know what direction it wanted, although he wished it would fix upon one direction, to indicate which direction he should go, although he knew his bed would be as far as he would ever go. The reality of it was disheartening, but he refused to dwell on it, not when the thought of seeing her again meant letting go.

He closed his eyes, imagining himself far away from the congestion and disease of the Old World. He'd seen hundreds of so-called "New Worlds," although hers had been different—greatly so. Wallachia and Constantinople, where he'd once been held captive by a Turkish nobleman's alluring Greek mistress, ill compared to the stark, untouched beauty he'd found, half a world away. His tired features carried an expression of a bittersweet nostalgia. He could almost feel himself back in Virginia, in that magical place where they shared a kiss for the very first time. He could see a foray of bright colors that contrasted vibrantly against the dismal gray tones of old, familiar London. He could sense the earth, the wind, and water, the very spirit of the earth encompassing him within its maternal embrace, and never feeling so at peace and complete as he did now. He breathed in the very essence of a life he could have had, and would now have if he accepted it.

It was then he felt himself taken in by the wind from the open window as a cold, swift rain duly followed after it. He would not open his eyes, however, not when he was finally returned to a world in which he now belonged. The two voyages that subsequently followed Jamestown had only led him to a place he'd christened New England, never to where he wanted to drop anchor, although for good reason. He couldn't bear to see her, not when her heart belonged to another, a heart he'd lost by his own selfish pride. He refused to pity himself; he deserved losing her, deserved the pain of loss for leaving her alone to grieve for so long.

He shuddered against the cold wind and rain, the thick, woolen blankets that covered him doing little to shield him from the outside elements he so blatantly welcomed into his home. He wanted to feel the wind again, to feel that raven hair as it fell against his face, eclipsing his milky pallor within a throng of wild ebony. He wanted to feel her warmth, to feel _her_, for such was his final wish before leaving the tenement of this earth forever.

The forest in his fading imagination thickened as he traversed its labyrinthine pines. He stared at them in true wonder. Had they always been this tall and majestic? He couldn't remember. He didn't remember the sun being so bright, or the sky so blue, either. Everything he'd retained in his memory dulled in comparison to the grandeur he presently saw. _Even if it's only an illusion, that will disappear when I open my eyes_, he considered sadly.

But for now, he would indulge in this momentary evasion from the reality of being an invalid, wasting away from a life he no longer wanted. For if he could have this…

He was out of the forest, reaching a clearing as old and familiar to him as the back of his right hand. He smiled at the sight. The long, winding branches of a willow tree swayed gently in the breeze, a soft summer scent pervading from the seemingly weeping form. He had made it, and was where, right where he wanted to be; and, without reservation, bounded towards it. Would she be there, waiting for him to go on some wild adventure, with only her as company? God, he could only hope so.

Though all to his disappointment, he found the glade empty of the one thing he wished most to see. He halted in his steps, the realization taking hold as the silence around him reaffirmed that which he knew already. He looked down to the ground, dismayed. She wasn't here; it was foolish to even think so, since this was only a wild fancy made by his feverish imagination. He looked up to the great willow tree, to where Grandmother Willow's face would be.

"I thought she'd be here," he said, half to the silent willow before him. "But then, I suppose even in my own dreams I'd never end up with her. I regret returning to England. I would have been happier to have stayed with her, and to have died in her arms, than to leave her for what I now know to be forever." He sighed then, his golden head hanging down in defeat. "But she wanted me to go, to live, though I know I left my heart back in Virginia, since only a shell returned to England. I shouldn't even be imagining this, since it will only cause me more heartache when I open my eyes." He looked up, to the great, silent willow imploringly. "I only wanted her happiness, and if that means continuing on without her, then I'll keep myself from her, even in death."

He made to leave then, preparing to open his eyes until a voice stayed his intent.

_You still see with clouded eyes, John Smith_, Grandmother Willow's voice seemed to say amidst the rustling wind.

He turned around quickly; truly surprised that she actually spoke to him. He could almost swear he heard her laugh. "Grandmother Willow?" he questioned amongst the shadows of his uncertainty. "Are you truly here, or am I simply imagining all of this? I know I am dreaming this."

The tree was silent, and he believed nothing more than wishful thinking that she even spoke at all until he heard a raspy retort. _You still doubt yourself. Even when the answer lies before you, you hesitate. Why are you so reluctant, young man? And yes, to answer your question: of course I'm here. For what are dreams, but the continuance of our lives when we seek refuge in our sleep?_

Smith almost laughed at the affectionate moniker she'd given him so long ago. "I'm afraid I'm not as young as I used to be," he said, and heard a slight gruff in return.

_You're far younger than I, young man. When you've reached the better part of five centuries, then you may say otherwise. You are still quite young, even if you don't believe yourself to be. She was quite young when she passed on from this world to be with her mother._

He nodded sadly at this. "I wasn't there when she died. I was—"

_Away on some adventure_, she finished for him. _Yes, I know, and you regret it_.

"There are a good deal many things I regret, Grandmother Willow, though I regret letting her go most of all. And yet, I wanted her to be happy."

_Even if her happiness was found with another? _the old tree returned questionably, and he nodded. _My, what a noble heart you have, John Smith. How is there any regret for such a selfless act of kindness_?

"There isn't," he eventually found himself say. "But I wish…"

_That you could have instead been in John Rolfe's place_, she answered thoughtfully. _It is a hard thing, letting go the one you love, but it made her happy, and was probably for the best. Your paths had shifted greatly in the time you left our world. It was not your fault. Nor was it hers. But things change, John Smith, just as you have changed._

At this, Smith found himself agreeing, if not a little sadly. "I suppose I have, but I only want to see her again."

The great willow gave pause at this, before answering, _Such a wish is not selfish, since your paths were once so tightly interwoven together. She loved you once, and still does, as you still love her._

Smith shook his head sorrowfully at this. "She loved John Rolfe," he pointed out, breaking inside when he did so. "And from all I've heard, he was a good husband, who loved her until his own death."

Grandmother Willow's branches swayed sagely in the wind at this. _All of which you speak is true. Actually, I remember counseling _him_ once, since he doubted her love for him_. She caught Smith's surprised expression, and she laughed. _Yes, he once believed that Pocahontas could love no other but you_, she said, a most tender smile embedded in her words. _But then, he came to understand that the human heart can hold love for more than simply one person, and that there are so many degrees of that emotion. She loved you, yes; though as a companion, she loved John Rolfe and the love his strange eyes held for her. Even I cannot deny this_.

"Nor can I," he answered, a sad, but satisfied, smile gracing his pale features. "But I shall always love her, as she will have my heart unto the ending of my own existence."

The old willow, whose face remained obscured in layers of tree bark and undergrowth, seemed to smile at this. _That's an awfully long time, young man_, she said. _But then, I believe you know that as well as I, and are prepared to live with the consequences of your decision. You seem to have done so for a long time now_, she reflected thoughtfully, a single willow branch cupping the side his of cheek with a tenderness that moved the adventurer. _But now you no longer have to endure waking every morning to find yourself alone. The great Chief Powhatan's words extended your welcome, well beyond this world, as it is now time for you to let go and return to it. Let go, John Smith, just let go._ _Let go of all your cares in the Old World, and enjoy the warmth of the New…Pale Sun_.

And he did.

As he breathed his last in this world of death, tears, and bloodshed.

…

He opened his eyes then, no longer seeing Grandmother Willow and her knowing grin, no longer seeing anything, save for a New World that beckoned to him, and he laughed as he answered its call. He felt himself twenty-eight again, so full of life and a need for adventure. It was almost liberating, yet strange at the same time. He felt as if he could run for miles, his tiredness, age, and wrinkles no longer hindering him from living a life beyond the confines of his moldering bed. He breathed out a sigh of contentment when looked upon his restored self in a nearby stream, feeling free for the first time since he'd returned to London, all those years ago.

And it was in the midst of these most truthful thoughts that he felt the wind, felt _her_. A foray of leaves—colored in a barrage of pinks, purples, and oranges—swirled around him, as the spirit of the wind, its very essence, came to welcome him within the diaphanous folds of its embrace. And John Smith welcomed it, calling her name as he held her in his arms.

He looked down and saw that the nothingness he'd held finally presented the one face that had eluded him for the better part of twenty years. He returned her welcoming smile, feeling the warmth he'd yearned so long to feel again. And now he was, as he also felt the presence of another. He looked up to the sky then, and caught sight of the full moon, sensing more than its luminous glow. For like the wind that contained his much beloved princess, the moon seemed to hold that of his once-rival. _Just as I seem to represent the sun_, he thought, recalling Grandmother Willow calling him by the name tribal name he'd chosen for himself at a moment's whim, and knew he would take his place, as Pocahontas and Rolfe had their respective places.

Looking down once more, he took in the beauty of her copper-colored face, while his hands, now young and unblemished once again, took in its subtle beauty between their splayed fingertips. He said her name, falling in love with her all over again. She only smiled. He knew that she still loved her husband, but if he could have this one moment with her, if only to simply be within her presence, then that was enough for him. He would be happy, if in that alone. He did not have to claim her for his own; for if he had to share her with another, then he accepted all that came with seeing her again.

Encased in the wind, she would forever remain between them, having both men in her life, and Smith was encouraged by the thought, since Grandmother Willow had been right, after all: the human heart _could_ love more than one; and although Pocahontas and Rolfe's love was comparatively different from his and hers, he was content to at last be reunited with her. Never again would he be separated from her, as he would finally take his place among her people, and represent the brilliance of the sun. He almost laughed. For what an adventure such would be! Finally free from the constraints of a repressive English society, he could finally live without the care of being forever tethered to a life he'd discarded, and it felt wonderful.

Pulling her all the more closely, he said as much until he conceded, and finally allowed her to lead him beyond the cares and troubles of his old life, and to the new one he had yet to claim. They journeyed for what seemed like only a moment of eternity, as a score of faces, both familiar and new, acknowledged him as he took his place around a great ceremonial fire. The village looked the same, if only larger. He then caught the imposing gaze of one of the warriors whom the Powhatan praised, even in death.

He gave a brief nod to Kocoum, who no longer bore a look of enmity toward him, as he gave one to Smith in return. Their rivalry had long been put to an end, as had his with Pocahontas' pet hummingbird, that now, oddly enough, flitted to his side, and alighted on his shoulder before flying off into the distance…with what he believed to be a very familiar raccoon and pug dog. He shook his head, though a smile touched his handsome features. He should've remembered her words about being connected with all that inhabited the earth. For unlike his Anglican view of life and death, and the separation between animal and man, there was no disconnection between the two among her tribe, since all were connected by an unbreakable circle which went on unto the ending of the world.

It was a comforting thought. And one that compelled him to look beyond the friendly faces who openly greeted him, to the one he almost dreaded seeing most. He shrugged off the metal explorer's hat he wore, and took a seat beside his former adversary, braving the distance between them as both men eyed each other silently.

The once-diplomat wore only a pair of buckskin pants, his long auburn hair free of the leather strap he had worn as an Englishman. He wore a broad tribal tattoo on his upper-left arm, matching Pocahontas', while a circle, in the form of a pale moon, adorned his right. Smith barely concealed his amusement. Who would have thought that the once prim-and-proper John Rolfe would ever be anything, other than the staunch Englishman he had once been?

He returned Rolfe's knowing smile, as well as the great Powhatan's, who stood before him, as he was finally welcomed among them, ready to take his place as the remains of a tattered and broken body lay far from his mind, ready to be buried and written into legend. Looking at Pocahontas, who held his hand in comfort, as she took that of her husband's in the other, the ceremony began, while a multitude of chants and cries reverberated from among the tribe, as his ascension to the skies became complete.

The ancient shaman, Kekata, moved to mark him with the ruddy ink of their tribe. He instinctively removed his shirt, and allowed the old man to tattoo him. He said nothing, while the old shaman drew forth a symbol from those insightful fingertips, merely sat there in silence as he listened to the spirit within, and imagined what symbol he would take.

When Kekata was finished, however, his attention returned to the present as all within the village watched on in silence. A bold imprint of a bright-red sun burned vibrantly against the pale skin of his upper-right bicep. He looked down at it and smiled, inclining his head in approval as he caught his princess' loving smile.

He was finally ready to move on.

It was then he let go of the last of which tied him to the Old World. He gave only a thought to those still living, to the young Thomas he'd met on his journey to Jamestown, and how the young man had prospered in the New World. He then thought of Thomas Rolfe, and of the long, winding path the young man had ahead of him. They would live on, carrying with them both memories of the Old and New World, as those who had passed on waited at the edge of a distant shore, for the day until they moved on from the former world, and into the next.

It was a journey any true adventurer should make, after all.

And was one that, Smith knew, would be the greatest of all. He smiled at the assurance of it, as he took his place among his princess' people, and to the skies that would forever hold his name.

…

The body of Captain John Smith was discovered the next morning by the apothecary, who had come to look in on his ailing patient. The old man, who in stolid, dark-blue shades of medicinal wisdom, looked to the open window, and then to the sodden white sheets that covered the still, gray figure of the man who had traveled the world and made a name for himself. He shook his head, already knowing the cause of such a swift and merciful death, and closed the window, a few drops of rain still clinging to its glass windowpanes. He looked once more upon the ghostly pale visage, and found a calming peace amidst those sea-worn features.

What a pity.

It was almost a shame the man had died so suddenly, for he surely had so much more to tell of his life and the adventures he'd had in his youth. It was also unfortunate that such would die with him, forever lost to the pages of history. The old apothecary shook his graying head, barely noticing the small, circular object the great explorer held. He frowned at it, before noting the compass and its direction. He shook his head. Pity, the poor thing appeared broken.

He then pulled the sheet over that chiseled, Grecian face, without another word, and gave a moment's silence in respect to a man who would never have another to emulate the greatness and esteem he'd once so freely expressed.

The great Captain was henceforth buried in the church St. Sepulchre-without-Newgate, with an epitaph which bore his name; and, as per his final request, was buried with the compass that held more than a direction, as it held everything that those still living would never know.

The gravediggers had given great reverence to the man whose adventures they'd heard of as boys, but methodically scratched their heads when they placed the tarnished compass in the dead Captain's right hand. Perhaps the rain had damaged it when it had claimed his life. Perhaps it had been damaged long before then. Either way, the compass, even when they turned it in their earthen-worn, questioning hands found that it held one direction alone.

They buried Smith in the quietude of the evening, the church bells chiming a solemn requiem for the fallen captain. And yet, as was figuratively considered such a dreary and miserable day, the sun had shone uncommonly bright, as mourners, who knew or had only heard of Smith, were present. The church was filled to the brim with over half of London in attendance, proving that the man was not alone as they mourned his death. They echoed prayers and words of comfort amidst their tears, trusting that God would welcome the explorer in their Anglicized view of eternity.

For so lost they were in their grief, they were barely aware of anything else until a soft wind breezed through its gaping stone corridors and archways, a strange sight that most within could only help but notice, as the compass that the newly-interred John Smith held, now concealed from earthly view, remained fixed in its direction as it pointed west.

…

**Author's Note: When I first began writing **_**Winter **__**Moon**_**, I really hadn't expected to write a companion piece to it. I simply wanted to write a story focusing on Pocahontas/John Rolfe's relationship, since I really didn't see any stories featuring that pairing. I just felt sorry John Rolfe, since he really isn't all that bad.**

**And yet, I have been a diehard Pocahontas/John Smith fan since the film came out in 1995, but really only to consider otherwise last year. I decided to give the original film's sequel a chance; and while it's better than some Disney sequels, I find myself disapproving of the way John Smith's character was handled. I mean, he just felt comparatively different from himself in the first film that it truly upset me to see how Disney could destroy a character I greatly admired. **

**I understand that it was probably done to persuade people to accept Pocahontas ending up with Rolfe, since that's what happened historically, but it really could have been handled a lot better than the way it was. I just don't believe the sequel did Smith's character justice, since his overall characterization is usually something I try to blot out of my mind when I watch the sequel. I just cannot see how he could do the things he did in that film. I suppose this oneshot is my response to that.**

**I confess it was very difficult to write his character, after what went done in the sequel, and I hope I did his character justice. I wanted him to be reunited with Pocahontas, but I also wanted to keep the integrity found in **_**Winter Moon**_** intact, with Pocahontas choosing Rolfe. I've often asked myself, "Why can't she have both?" I guess this is the one way I could accomplish that—especially after seeing the first film's deleted "**_**If I Never Knew You**_**" scene, which just leaves me in tears.**

**The history mentioned about Smith's writings and adventures, prior to Virginia, should be right. My sources were all online, so some may not be accurate. If not, I greatly apologize. However, oddly enough, there is a window over the historical John Smith's grave. It was designed by famous stained glass artist, Francis Skeat, and was installed in the church in 1968. It features the **_**Susan Constant**_**, I believe, in the stained glass. This little fact does correlate with the window in this story, since I just found it interesting that John Smith has a window commemorating his life. **

**There are also, undoubtedly, elements of Emily Brontë's **_**Wuthering Heights**_** in this story, although I find John Smith to be **_**far**_** from being anything remotely similar to Heathcliff. It's pretty much not ending up with the love of his life, and his death that are similar. I really didn't think about the similarities all that much until I actually **_**thought**_** about them. XD**

**Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed this oneshot. It's a very bittersweet story, and I had originally intended for this to have taken place only a couple of years after **_**Winter Moon**_**, with a completely different plot, but it didn't happen this time. Maybe it was for the best. I'm just glad to finally have something from Smith's point-of-view, since the man was just incredible in _Pocahontas_.**


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